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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414031">Would You Spare Me Your Voice If I Call?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kozumye/pseuds/Kozumye'>Kozumye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Confessions, Depression, Gay, Inspired by a Mitski Song, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Phone Calls &amp; Telephones, Song Lyrics, based on a tweet, kuroshou, mitski - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:47:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kozumye/pseuds/Kozumye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His phone is in both hands, he can see the glare of the light through his thick wet eyelashes, and he’s thinking about it. He’s really thinking about it.</p>
<p>  <i>Would you spare me your voice if I call?</i></p>
<p>Kuroo doesn’t remember pressing the button, but he hears it ring. He hears the static of the T.V., the newscaster speaking slow and clear, and the monotonous beeping of his phone before him. </p>
<p>Then, with a click:</p>
<p>“... Kuroo?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daishou Suguru/Kuroo Tetsurou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Would You Spare Me Your Voice If I Call?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonxas/gifts">wonxas</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>QUICK TRIGGER WARNING //</p>
<p>There are themes of depression and anxiety in this fic, and an implied reference to suicide. Nothing is explicit or explicitly talked about, but please proceed with caution.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Kuroo wonders if it’s worth it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s hurting, yes, he’s about to go fucking insane and suffocate between his own apartment walls— </span>
  <em>
    <span>but is it worth it</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Show his weakness to someone who might not even care? Someone he can’t identify his relationship with, someone whom he left off with undetermined?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t remember the last time they even spoke... After they lost at Nationals? Before that?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo still has his number saved in his phone, he wonders if it’s the same. He wonders, even if it were the same, if he’d get an answer. He sighs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The T.V. is on, white and flashing, but only static reaches his ears. The window is open, but it’s humid, hot; the curtains aren’t moving. He feels himself shaking, cold, but sweating, his chin sticky with the tears that he produces in an uneven pattern— The breaks between his sobs filled with pounding thoughts instead. Oh, oh.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His phone is in both hands, he can see the glare of the light through his thick wet eyelashes, and he’s thinking about it. He’s really thinking about it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Would you spare me your voice if I call?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo doesn’t remember pressing the button, but he hears it ring. He hears the static of the T.V., the newscaster speaking slow and clear, and the monotonous beeping of his phone before him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then, with a click:</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“... Kuroo?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Kuroo about dies.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hears Daishou’s voice on the other line— groggy, he was probably sleeping, probably dreaming, probably peaceful. Probably with Mika.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo gasps, suppresses a sob.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” He chokes out. He sounds strangled, unnatural.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve never called me before,” Daishou points out, but it’s not an accusation. Kuroo realizes he was expecting accusations... hostility. He’s grateful that Daishou doesn’t ask why he called. Maybe part of him knows that he shouldn’t, that something is sensitive right now with him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Kuroo clears his throat and tries to be okay. At least for a conversation. At least for this much. “Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a long pause on the other line. Some rustling, a click (a lamp?), a sigh.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo thinks it might have been a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea. He can’t remember having an actual civil conversation with Daishou since— well, ever. He can’t remember a moment where he wasn’t Daishou’s rival, from middle school ‘til now. His hands shake a little more, and he drops his phone on the bed, speakerphone </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Daishou speaks. He sounds a little more composed now. Not annoyed. Kuroo thought he would be annoyed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why isn’t he annoyed?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t sleep, I guess?” He says, and spares Kuroo the awkward laugh. Kuroo just watches the small tears drip onto his bedsheets, the wet pools deepening in stains.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess,” Kuroo murmurs back. He sniffs loudly, and tries to compose himself, an audibly sticky swallow picking up on the line. “Yeah. Sorry, I—... I don’t know why I—“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re,” Daishou cuts him off. At first he just says that, a little rushed and awkward and dumb. After a few seconds of Kuroo holding his breath, he continues. “You’re working for— the, ah, Volleyball Association, right?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo lets a sad smile overtake him. His lips quiver, nose flares and burns.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” He says. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s it. Kuroo thinks that’s it. His chest has been tight this whole time— he thinks he might hang up, he thinks he might apologize and throw his phone against the wall and let himself fall out his 16-story window (on accident, of course) (he tells himself it would be an accident) (if anyone else asked, he’d say it was an accident) (Kuroo looks at the window, and a lump forms in his throat) (an accident.)</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I never thought you’d make it that far, honestly.” Kuroo is glad that Daishou fills the silence. He fixates on his voice, and leans against his pillows for the first time in four days. “Maybe that’s the burning rivalry talking.” A chuckle. (Kuroo tries not to notice how mature his little laugh sounds, like he’s an adult now) (he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> an adult now— they both are.) “I always thought you’d continue with volleyball, honestly. You used to be so good. Hell—“ He clicks his tongue, and Kuroo can imagine it. He wonders if it’s the same as it used to be. It sounds like it is. “You beat me out, and I’m still playing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Division 2,” Kuroo cuts in, voice weak. He’s smiling. He doesn’t know when his bitter, sad smile turned into this soft one. He doesn’t know when his breathing became less choppy. “Yotsuba Motor Spirits. Number sixteen.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Daishou’s breath is shaky. It’s</span>
  <em>
    <span> him</span>
  </em>
  <span> for once.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” He whispers. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There's silence, and Kuroo closes his eyes. He misses him. He almost wants to tell him that— Say how much he misses him, how his little crush had festered inside him all these years, how all he wanted to do right now was curl under Daishou’s arm.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pictures Mika there, snuggling into Daishou’s chest as he talks on the phone, and makes a sour face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is-,” Kuroo begins, then stops short to rephrase. He still sounds ragged. “How is Mika?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Daishou sighs audibly. A sigh he wanted Kuroo to hear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s good. Got a fiancé now. It’s—,” He pauses. Ponders. “Weird, really. Seeing her with someone else.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Someone else.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not him. Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daishou.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Engaged.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you still love her?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo doesn’t know what prompted that (or he does, and doesn’t want to admit it just yet) (at least not now, not verbally) or why he sounded so composed. He doesn’t know why he didn’t have any second thoughts about saying it— Which he really probably should’ve.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because Daishou stammers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“U-um,” He nervously chokes out. He coughs, and Kuroo considers the window again. He considers the less embarrassing option.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not really.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo’s heart stops. He thinks this time, but not that much.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Silence again. The tension is enough to make Kuroo feel a hundred pounds heavier, enough for the muscles in his neck to seize and start to strain. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Daishou picks up, voice softer. Kuroo likes the way his voice sounds right now. “I’ll always love her a little bit, I think. Not in the way that... Not in the way that I’d take her back if she asked to, or in a way that I hope her marriage is unhappy or anything...”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo can tell that Daishou has thought about this before, has fleshed out all these details about his feelings toward Mika. He wonders if he did it when she announced her engagement. He wonders if he had a night like the one Kuroo’s currently having.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s the thing about first loves,” Daishou continues. “They’re first loves, not forever loves. They’re the guidelines to let you know how to feel love.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Daishou pauses, and Kuroo is silent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Does that make sense?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo shrugs to himself. He’s staring at the T.V. but the shapes are indiscernible at this point, still, and he doesn’t care to try to discern them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A little bit,” He agrees. “I believe what you said... About Mika, that you love her a little bit. But—” He pauses, eyes darting around the room (not at the window). “For me, my first love is complicated.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How so?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m still in it.” Kuroo says bluntly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Daishou shuffles, muffled rustling on the line. At least now Kuroo knows that he’s by himself, that Mika isn’t the one causing that rustling.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s less than ideal. Childhood crush...?” Daishou asks. He’s trying to sound cool, Kuroo can tell, like an uncle talking to his uninterested nieces and nephews.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not Kenma, if that’s what you’re asking,” Kuroo chuckles a bit. He feels normal. He wonders when he started feeling normal again. “He’s tied up with MSBY’s number twenty-one at the moment.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Kind of saw that coming,” Daishou mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Kuroo is silent for a moment. Mentally retracing his steps. “But... Uh, yeah. Just— Some guy. Shitty middle school rivalry. Shitty high school rivalry.” He hesitates, squeezes his eyes tight. He knows what he should say next. It’s on the tip of his tongue. He shouldn’t— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>— It’s a dead giveaway— It would be</span>
  <em>
    <span> really stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>— “Shitty girlfriend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There it was.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mika wasn’t shitty, really, but to him, she was his greatest rival— not Daishou, or Karasuno, or... or anyone. Mika. Because she had him. Because she had him, and she loved him, and he loved her. And they were good. And she was lovely.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Daishou doesn’t respond right away. Kuroo doesn’t expect him to, really. Kuroo expects him to hang up. His heart rate picks up again, and he can feel his own pulse through his phone, pressed to his temple, jaw hard and teeth grinding slowly in anticipation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Daishou’s voice is gravelly when he speaks next, warped and rough. It reminds Kuroo of his tear-laced words at the beginning of their conversation.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sounds like my second love,” He says, “Minus the girlfriend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Silence.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo should say something. He should do something other than just sit there, speechless, back against the cheap wire bed frame, letting the loose tears flow onto his shirt again. Maybe they were just leftover tears, the last ones, hopeful and happy and yet so unbelievably sad at the same time...</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Wait... Was he in Tokyo?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we-,” He starts, just at the same time that Daishou speaks too:</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We should get coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Kuroo lets himself laugh. Just a little bit. Then he sighs, letting the compressed weight from the night float off of him. He’s okay. He’s okay. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He can discern the shapes on the T.V. again. He’s watching a news special about a new attraction in an art park. It’s boring. He doesn’t care. He’s someone’s second love.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Kuroo says with a smile. “Let’s get coffee.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Kuroo gets a good night’s rest for the first time in four days.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Accidentally wrote a full oneshot again, wow, look at me. This is for B, mostly, because it's Daishou &amp; Mitski, but eh I wrote it so now it's for everyone. </p>
<p>This fic is based off of <a href="https://twitter.com/mitskihq/status/1323313446885171205?s=20">this tweet by the Mitski HQ bot</a> that struck me with inspiration for some reason. Feel free to check out my twitter as well, where I make banger tweets, and all my other fics from my profile! Thank you for reading!</p>
<p><a href="https://twitter.com/Kozumye">My Twitter</a> || <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/3iDMNG7MD7uCPMxBOa66ZI?si=rzF3rJvMSFCKOipKkTdFqg">The song this is based off of</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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